


Of Hounds, Tea and Interfering Villagers

by Luthienberen



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2018 [12]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (US TV 1954)
Genre: Fictional village, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Humor, M/M, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 01:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15304008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: Watson needs a break from Holmes’ madness, but instead finds a suspicious populace, a baffling tale and a short encounter which is most extraordinary.





	Of Hounds, Tea and Interfering Villagers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for July writing prompts. Prompt No.15 Take a Break. Watson takes a vacation away from Baker Street. How does that work out?  
> This got away from me...sorry?  
> Inspiration from The Hound of the Baskervilles, but reversed.  
>  _Friendship fluff/gen, but also can be taken possibly pre-slash._

The good fresh air of the countryside was bliss after a particularly trying few weeks in the summer smog of London. Watson inhaled hearty amounts of the clean air, rejoicing in being able to breathe without coughing or his eyes stinging.

Clutching his stick in one hand and his suitcase in the other, Watson paid the cart driver and approached the cottage. It was a lovely Tudor affair with roses proudly adorning window boxes outside the ground floor windows.

The first floor had blushing pink and pale purple tulips. The sign proclaimed rather eerily “The Hound of Bishopsgate”. The painting showed a fearsome hound with dripping fangs.

Watson supposed that it was there to frighten in the old days superstitious thieves.

He could hear voices inside through the open door. Well, he had better enter and secure his room if he wished to sleep under a roof.

Such an act was swiftly accomplished and Watson quickly found himself installed among the regulars of this quaint inn.

“Doctor Watson? Aint you the one who goes about with that detective Mr Sherlock Holmes?” asked one farmer, a hale fellow with sun-burnt skin and crystal clear blue eyes. Name of Mr Smith.

“Why yes, but-”

“Where is Mr Holmes then? Hiding in your room?” asked the postman, Mr Grey.

Watson was taken aback by the level of interest and temporarily mourned how famous his writings had made Holmes. Of course, his friend would be quite smug about that if he ever discovered Watson ‘s regret, so Watson hastily squashed the treacherous emotion.

“No, I am here alone on holiday.”

The men blinked in confusion.

“Alone?” queried the farmer, Mr Smith. “Have you had a falling out?”

“No, of course not! Why should we? May I inquire as to your interest gentlemen?”

The postman shrugged. “You are always together in the stories, even when Mr Holmes is in disguise. And you have had cases when holidaying together so…”

“Oh, I see.” Watson was relieved that the interest was not nefarious in nature. “It is perfectly innocent gentlemen. I wished for a peaceful holiday and Holmes had experiments he desired to complete. I also desired to be able to drink my tea without fearing exotic poisons in the teapot, as such experiments usually end up.

“Hence I am her on my own to enjoy walks in the countryside air and fish in the nearby streams. A friend of mine recommended this village as an excellent place to remove the London smog from one’s lungs.”

The men exchanged doubtful expressions, clearly not believing him and Watson’s heart sank.

“Well, if that’s what you say, how about another drink?” suggested Mr Smith with false cheer.

The others agreed rather enthusiastically and Watson had the sensation as the evening drew on that the men considered his explanation a cover story. They certainly were very solicitous, offering him beer and a try at the village’s “Hound buns”. These revealed themselves as sweet spiced buns with a hound shaped out of currants stuck on the top.

That was another thing, the Hound of the sign apparently originated from an old legend. Watson struggled to understand in his drunken state.

The farmer took great glee in describing the short yet ominous legend.

_“Back in the reign of Elizabeth, the current inn-keeper – a godly man much loved by the village – was riding home after an evening with the Bishop who was staying at the local church. The Bishop had invited the inn-keeper to discuss arrangements for the visit of important members of the Church. The Bishop wished to use the inn for meals and living quarters, due to having been raised in the village as a lad._

_They had come to satisfactorily arrangements when the inn-keeper left. Well, half-way home he was set upon by thugs who beat him and nearly killed the man,. Yet as they stood ready to deal the final blow, a terrible cry echoed over the fields. The thugs froze and listened to another cry followed by a wailing howl that was now nearer._

_The inn-keeper was nearly senseless, but he says that after that final wail that seem to hold the very promise of doom, that a hound appeared._

_It was giant in proportions, like a calf, black in visage. Its fangs glowed as did its eyes. Within moments the hound had set upon the thugs in turn and they fled, later to be discovered dead with fear._

_Once gone the hound approached the inn-keeper, yet its eyes were friendly and glowed like angel-light. The inn-keeper knew nothing from the moment the hound breath touched him until he awoke in his own bed._

_Well, the Bishop declared the hound a saviour and from then on the inn has that sign to remind the unwary and the inn-keeper’s descendants of the hound that protects this family and village._

Watson shook his head once the farmer had finished, feeling light-headed from the beer he had consumed.

“A lovely tale sir and I assure you that I shall endeavour to not upset the inn-keeper or his family, or anyone in the village.”

The postman nodded thoughtfully and said innocently, “I’m sure Mr Holmes could come and check out the tale if you said something about it.”

Horror spread through Watson. Now his befuddled brain understood the men’s forced joviality. They still suspected that he had an argument with Holmes and were attempting to first, cheer him up and second lure Holmes out to reconcile.

Realising the situation was hopeless Watson made his excuses and went for his bed. 

* * *

He dreamt of an ethereal hound that night. One moment he was strolling down a beautiful country lane, the next he was beset by ruffians who could withstand his punches. Yet, even as Watson despaired and thought one last time of his dear Holmes a spectral hound leapt over the hedgerow and with snapping jaws, swishing tail and sinister howl banished his assailants.

Upon awakening Watson dismissed the dream as the result of too much beer, heavy food and heeding the folklore of these parts.

Determined to shake the dust of superstition from his mind, along with the London smog from his lungs, Watson dressed for a long walk and took his fishing tackle.

“Good morning Doctor Watson!” called the inn-keeper’s daughter, a lively girl of fifteen.

“Morning, my dear. I say, is there a chance for breakfast and food for a picnic? I would like to take a stroll up to the stream bordering the far end of the woods.”

“Of course there is, Doctor Watson. If you wait a moment you shall have both.”

And so, not much later Watson had finished a delightful breakfast of porridge, bacon and toast with scrumptious strawberry preserve.

When he saw the girl returning he gathered his equipment, but paused at her hesitation.

“Are you well Miss? I am a doctor as you are aware and without prying…If you need a doctor, please feel able to call upon my services.”

The girl beamed and said in an excited agitated manner, “Oh I am fine doctor. Here,” she offered up the picnic basket.

“There is enough for two.”

“Two?”

“In case Mr Holmes joins you.”

Watson nearly groaned, but refrained at the genuine concern and kind-heartedness behind the gesture. The next case he reported he would write himself out, simply so it wouldn’t appear as if he and Holmes were joined at the hip.

If nothing else, it would prevent criminals from believing him as a way to reach Holmes. He was sure Holmes would understand as the man was _mostly_ logical.

All this trouble for peace and no poisoned tea!

Keeping his response to a polite thank you, Watson hurried off ere he was way-laid by other well-meaning villagers attempting to mend a supposed rift between detective and doctor.

* * *

Horses were in the fields as well as sheep as Watson walked down a narrow country path. He could smell the grass, a scent that was quite soothing, and the flashes of buttercups and daises were pleasant visions amid the green.

Eventually the fencing gave way to hedgerows of dark green and in need of trimming. The bird-calls were the same. The looming woods in the distance were the same.

Unease crept up Watson’s spine.

This section recalled his dream and while he wished to dismiss it, his soldier instincts screamed at him to pay attention.

 _“Better to look foolish and among the living than be proud and dead,”_ whispered the voice of the sergeant who had shipped out with him.

Watson distributed the weight of equipment so it was on his back, while he held the picnic basket in less dominant hand: the left.

Whistling softly and faking a causal air, Watson continued strolling, but slightly faster, eyes and ears alert.

As such he heard the rustle of grass under shoe and was diving when two ruffians flung themselves at him from a cleverly concealed parting in the hedgerow.

Swinging his basket at one, Watson punched the other hard enough to send the chap reeling. The third he managed to lay flat, but the fourth sneaked up and hit him sufficiently so that he stumbled and fell onto his knees in the lane.

Yet, even as he twisted to defend himself, Watson froze as a rising howl suffused the air. The thug paused, face white and then he cried out.

Watson gasped for a spectral hound had indeed appeared. Black as ink with eyes an iridescent green and fangs white and hard stood in the lane before them.

For an instant the hound locked gazes with Watson and Watson was pierced with the knowledge that this hound was seeing into his soul.

 _Holmes_ , was all Watson could think of. A supplication to a friend absent, for worried about what the hound would see in him, Watson could only spare feeling for his dear friend. He hoped Holmes would manage without him and not spend his life attempting to figure out what had happened to Watson.

As if the hound approved of his thinking and what he saw in Watson’s character the hound turned upon the thugs and in the breath it took for it to open its terrible jaws Watson fainted.

* * *

“Watson! Watson!”

The terrified call awoke him from his stupor and Watson blinked his eyes open to find Holmes leaning over him.

His friend’s face was pale with anxiety and his voice actually shook when he addressed Watson.

“Watson, what happened? Are you injured?”

Holmes ran a searching hand over Watson’s forehead and Watson realised that Holmes was supporting him with one arm.

With a start Watson recalled recent events and struggled to sit up.

“Watson!” exclaimed Holmes.

Touched by his friend’s concern, Watson smiled weakly.

“I am well Holmes and I shall tell you what occurred, but how are you here?”

Holmes looked unconvinced, yet he drew out a telegram and showed Watson it.

COME AT ONCE. DR WATSON NEEDS YOU. A FRIEND.

Watson groaned. “Oh the villagers, they couldn’t understand why I was on holiday alone and are convinced we have had a falling out. They have been attempting to cheer me up, saying you should come to research this tale…”

“What tale Watson? And why would the villagers believe we had a disagreement?” Holmes frowned, “I thought we got on rather well and-”

“Holmes,” interrupted Watson. “I promise I shall tell you everything, but please let me you so we can move into a field. There is sufficient for two in the picnic basket – _naturally_ there is that little cunning vixen,” added Watson, feeling impressed by the girl’s complicity.

Holmes agreed with reluctance and insisted that Watson hold his arm during the process. Only once settled did Watson ask, “How did you find me?”

“The girl told me the direction you went in and I heard dreadful howls as I came up the lane, so rushed on to see you alone on the lane, lying as if dead. Now Watson, what has been going on?”

Watson sighed and passed a ham sandwich.

“I do believe Holmes, you were right about the intrigues of the countryside. Now, as for why we are both here, just bear with me for the tale is a peculiar one.”

Holmes pressed water upon him and nodded.

“I am listening Watson.”

And so, Watson began describing what had happened to him on his holiday so far…of one night and day, (which all things considered, he really should have just stayed in Baker Street, but consumed tea elsewhere to minimise exposure to exotic compounds).


End file.
